Rebels
by shadowfax2003
Summary: Itachi teaches Kisame a lesson in being a rebel.


The black-haired Prince of Crows pirouetted skillfully on his right heel in an awe-inspiring display of ninja agility. More impressive than his long-abandoned kunai target practice routine, far deadlier than the visual acuity of his kekkei genkai, his ability to dodge around the ill-fated, almost-forgotten remains of one unfertilized chicken egg that had quietly rolled off the kitchen countertop were enough to stun a wild crowd into silence. More remarkable yet were his ungodly cooking skills, of which he was completely unashamed and more than willing to share with the rest of his black trench coat, blood clouds, and dark nails aficionados.

Due to most unfortunate circumstances, the Uchiha genius had been coerced by still decidedly secretive higher powers into a less-than-appetizing coalition with none other than Hoshigaki Kisame of the infamous Seven Ninja Swordsmen of the Mist. The amphibian's thirst for battle was enough to make yours truly drown in a sea of regret for not terminating him when he'd had the chance. This, coupled with a flippant attitude and a thorough disregard for the Uchiha's preferences regarding one taboo topic by the name of Sasuke had slowly but surely accumulated into a pile of perfectly rational seething anger the size of Konoha's Hokage Monument.

And so, months later and sheltered from the pouring rain within the confines of Akatsuki's newest hideout, Itachi found himself taking care of both their gnawing hunger. Days of silent agonizing over an appropriate revenge plan had finally come to fruition while Kisame was away on an Akatsuki-sanctioned mission, and the S-ranked Leaf missing nin silently gloated over the steaming pot that crowned the stove's sole working burner.

Crimson eyes accented by three black, outward-pointing magatamas maintained unwavering focus on the steaming saucepan, and a wooden spoon was hoisted from its place on the countertop mere seconds before the telltale signs of boiling broth showed. This, among many other criticisms from the populace at large, would be considered a blasphemous misuse of the rare dōjutsu, much to Itachi's masochistic delight.

He stirred the soup a few times before carefully lifting it so that the concave end held a tablespoon of broth exactly. Using his free hand, he waved the rising ribbon of steam towards his nose and inhaled it. After a few seconds of careful deliberation, he brought the spoon to his lips with a lazy steadiness that would have garnered the steaming envy of even Konoha's famed medical prodigy. Satisfied with the resultant flavor, he flipped the spoon back over his shoulder with an over-practiced flick of the wrist that sent it twirling tip over tail straight into the half-filled sink behind him.

A quick, Sharingan-infused glance out the window at the growing dusk, and Itachi knew his partner would be due back any minute. The subsequent flicker of chakra reminiscent of salty, lapping waves and fish slime provided him both a sense of relief and irritation. Despite, or perhaps in spite of, his efforts to understand and in no small measure control the instinctive dislike towards his gilled partner, Itachi couldn't help the feeling of being rubbed the wrong way whenever they were near each other from sliding down his spine like the cold, sticky touch of a drowned seaman. Still, he suppressed a shiver with practiced ease and turned towards the kitchen door just in time to catch Kisame poking his head through the open doorway and taking a gillful of air as though to taste the steaming soup from across the room.

"Itachi-san, you're making dinner?" The unadulterated wonder dripping from his voice caused a vein in Itachi's forehead to pulse furiously, and his hold on the saucepan's handle tightened, goaded by a few rogue filaments of fire manipulation chakra. With a resolve strong enough to rival the famous Will of Fire, Itachi masterfully suppressed his homicidal instinct and settled on Kisame's face with blood-red eyes.

"What's it to you?" The sudden flood of poorly-concealed bitterness hit home perhaps a bit more forcefully than intended, as indicated by the ensuing stream of emotions playing across Kisame's face. They ranged from mild surprise, to suspicion, and finally—a fact which pleased Itachi more so than he'd be willing to admit—fear.

"N-nothing! It's just rare!"

The skin around Kisame's small, beady eyes became taut as his eyebrows shot up defensively. His lips parted slightly as the corners of his mouth lifted them to reveal two rows of pointy, needle-like teeth. Unable to stand the eerie sight of the half-man-half-shark Shinobi any longer, Itachi twirled on his heel and back towards the still-simmering soup on the stove with a mumbled "Whatever."

Kisame, taken by a short burst of clear-headedness in a fortunate turn of events, decided that the best course of action was to simply go with the flow and give the salty Uchiha some space.

"I'll go get the table ready."

The receding shuffle of footsteps, along with the clank of bowls let Itachi know that he was, once again, blissfully alone. He turned the stove off and replaced the clear glass lid on top of the saucepan and then, hands firmly buried inside a pair of mittens embroidered with the Uchiha clan symbol, he grabbed the saucepan by the handle and lifted it from the stove. When the weight of it became too much, he brought his free hand under its bottom to support it and slowly made his way towards the dining room.

Kisame was still busy setting the soup bowls on the table when Itachi entered the room carrying the saucepan along with a metal ladle cradled in the crook of his arm. Irritation at Kisame's slowness bloomed inside his chest and it was all Itachi could do to prevent his Mangekyō Sharingan from activating and causing him to lose more of his lifespan in one evening than in the past year.

"Is the table ready?"

Kisame, holding a medium-sized soup bowl gingerly in both hands, leaned slightly over the table and placed it by his unusually-sour partner's choice seat along with a new pair of wooden chopsticks and a soupspoon.

"Almost!"

As he straightened up, the sleeve of his Akatsuki cloak brushed against one of the two water cups on the table and caused it to spin sharply on its bottom and nearly spill its contents all over the tablecloth.

A sharp flare of chakra reminiscent of black, immortal flames stabbed at Kisame's sensitive shark-like feelers, which in turn sent a jolt of mottled panic running through his system that he deeply hoped Itachi was not privy to. Fortunately, and with slightly colder-than-usual hands, Kisame managed to still the cups' tirade before any of the water within spilled. The sound of footsteps on wood and the wafting smell of hot soup told him that Itachi was on his way with the saucepan.

Without a word, Itachi carefully (unlike some people) set the steaming soup on the wooden trivet at the center of the table. With the corner of his eye, and with the boost provided by his still-active kekkei genkai, Itachi followed Kisame's movements and was pleased in no small measure at his partner's uncharacteristic awkwardness and discomfort. With fluid movements, he proceeded to dip the ladle in the pot and bring it back up, full to the brim. Once both bowls were filled, he gave Kisame a small, stiff nod so as to indicate that it was all right to sit down.

The former ANBU captain watched in mild confusion as his partner's face was flooded by a rigid, gauche smile as he clapped his hands above the bowl and all but squeaked "Itadakimasu!" A small, but nonetheless heartwarming, current of satisfaction ran down the Uchiha's back at Kisame's ever-growing uneasiness. Itachi proceeded to pick up his chopsticks and spoon and begin eating, but not before he let out one last, caustic retort.

"Just shut up and eat."

Silence as deep as the ocean followed while the two S-Class Missing Ninja began their dinner. But, as Itachi had predicted, it did not last, for a couple of satisfied slurps into it, Kisame dropped his chopsticks and spoon on the table with a loud, jarring clank and proceeded to lift his bowl until it hovered, steaming, in front of his face. An ecstatic look washed over his blue face as he exclaimed from behind a veil of rising steam before he brought the bowl to his lips and began gulping down its contents.

"This is delicious! What is it!? What is it!?"

A look colder than the Land of Snow mixed with the kind of sadistic satisfaction that would make Hidan proud settled on Itachi's face and a rogue tendril of killing intent seeped out from his direction.

"An Uchiha family delicacy," he answered. He took another spoonful of soup and let out a contented sigh before he continued. "Shark fin soup." Bright red eyes and spinning magatamas settled on Kisame in expectation of a violent reaction that was sure to follow.

At first however, nothing happened. No reaction came from the direction of the accidental cannibal. A mixture of disappointment and irritation settled in the Uchiha's stomach at that. He begun to think that perhaps he had not been heard, or that maybe Kisame did not care for such archaic beliefs.

Another second passed before there was a change, and it was so subtle that Itachi was sure he would not have caught it were it not for his Sharingan. The little bump in Kisame's throat stopped its rhythmic jumps, and the bowl stilled at his lips. His fingers paled to a baby blue as he squeezed the bowl in shock. Soup spilled between the bowl's edge and the corners of his mouth where it dripped on the tablecloth below, staining it.

With shaking hands, Kisame dropped the bowl on the table and brought his hands up to his mouth. They lingered there, pressed tightly against his lips as he choked and gagged on a mouthful of soup. Panic began coursing through him and it trickled out from his direction in awkward bursts like a fish flopping on dry land.

His beady eyes settled on those of his monster teammate, horror and shock and anger all swirling within like a hurricane about to make landfall. Small drops of sweat began oozing from his pores and the color drained from his face with every second until there was almost none left. With a last, horrible gag he shot up from his chair, lifting the table a few inches off the ground in the process and rushed towards the bathroom.

Itachi stared blankly at Kisame's now-empty chair. Through the silence, he could hear faint moans and gags emanating from the bathroom. He contemplated it for just a moment, as though deciding whether he felt bad for the poor sap. Memories of witty remarks and poorly-disguised insults towards his clan and his brother resurfaced in his mind like drowned bodies floating from the depths of the ocean, and with a sharp huff and a shrug, the Uchiha decided no mercy was due.

" _Rebel_ has more than one meaning, Kisame," he whispered under his breath as he readied yet another spoonful of soup. "You're the one that should be wary of me."


End file.
